Mirror Mirror
by Lost in Ashes
Summary: At the age of eleven Sherlock falls in love... with his own reflection. This is the story of what happened next.


Mirror Mirror

A/N – Contains sexual content and drug use.

_"__**To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance**__." - Oscar Wilde_

When Sherlock was eight, he received an illustrated copy of Greek myths as a Christmas present. He couldn't remember who it was from - some distant Uncle or Aunt most likely. His close family had all been made well aware that he found fiction, particularly the kind aimed at young children, frustrating. Sherlock barely glanced at the book before shoving somewhere out of the way, making room for other, more valued presents.

It was only years later, when he was confined to his bed with mumps and bored to the point near catatonia, that he picked it up. The stories were all stupid, naturally, but the pictures were well-drawn and rather intriguing: a minotaur straining at its chains, head thrown back in a bellow: a man locked in a deadly embrace with a gigantic lion, a woman caught at the point of transforming into a tree. The picture he liked best was of a young man, bending over a pool of water. The boy was half-naked, his finely muscled back rising out of a leather kilt, dark curls falling over his shoulders. You couldn't see his face properly, just a blurred reflection in the water.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure why he liked looking at it so much, until Mummy came in with a tray, looked over his shoulder and commented.

"Oh, he looks just like you, doesn't he?"

"Does he?" Sherlock looked again, and imagined himself, crouching in that position over the water, muscles flexed, his own face in that jumble of features in the water. The feeling gave him a flood of warmth somewhere low in his body, a pulse of pleasure that lifted upwards through his chest.

Later, when he was better, he looked at himself in the mirror, tightening his muscles so they showed under his pale skin. He wasn't as muscled as the boy in the picture. His body still had the chubby softness of childhood around the stomach but touching his arms his skin was smooth and soft. He had to hold up a hand mirror to see the back of his head, but Mummy was right: his hair fell in perfect ringlets, just as the boy from the painting's.

After that, Sherlock became rather more aware of his own appearance. He snuck the family photo album out from the bookcase where it was kept, and took it to his own room, going through it, page by page. He had been a beautiful child from the beginning, he realised. He'd been the platonic ideal of babyhood, rosy cheeked and curly-haired, dimpling appealingly on the rare occasions the camera had caught him smiling. It was no wonder his parents preferred him to Mycroft who, Sherlock was amused to see, had been unattractively sallow and oddly pointy looking for a toddler.

The pictures of himself in recent years were what drew Sherlock's attention most, though. His body was lengthening, muscles becoming defined in his arms and shoulders, his body approaching adolescence. A photo of him last summer at the beach, shirtless, bending over a rockpool, the long line of his back lightly tanned from the sun took his breath away. He found himself reaching under his shirt to feel the hidden line of vertebrae, the curve at the lower end of his back. The skin there was smooth and warm, and Sherlock shivered at the touch that suddenly felt almost too intimate.

The awareness of his own beauty stayed with him. It became a kind of game: Sherlock would seek out his own reflection in mirrors and shop windows, in puddles, in the backs of spoons, and it always gave him a shiver of warmth, an excited flutter in the pit of his belly.

The trick was to look quickly so that nobody noticed. Sherlock wasn't ashamed of his own vanity, if that was what it was, but keeping it to himself made it more special somehow. His body was a gift that only he had access to.

Mycroft caught him out a few times, and raised his eyebrows in that infuriating way he had, but Sherlock only rolled his eyes and ignored him. It wasn't as if _Mycroft_ could have any idea of what it was like to be beautiful.

* * *

Sherlock got into the habit of spending a couple of hours every morning in front of the mirror. He got up early, so as to evade the attention of any nosy person (Mycroft) who might want to know what Sherlock was up to. He'd take off his pyjamas and go into his bathroom, shivering a little. The Holmes house was one of those old stone walled buildings that never seemed to properly heat up, no matter how high they turned the radiators. Sherlock could feel the cold rising through the rug from the slate floor beneath, making his feet ache.

He didn't have a full length mirror so he had to improvise, angling the little bathroom mirror so he could look at the whole of himself piece by piece. He'd stare for a long time, particularly at the stomach and chest, the lean muscled arms, the slim thighs. He'd step closer to examine his face, his eyes, a tumult of silver-blue, his soft full mouth. He'd look for a long time, as long as he could stand it, before touching. He always started with a touch to his chest, tracing the ribs, circling the little pink hillocks of his nipples, smoothing down his arms, moving up to caress his long neck, the curves of his cheeks, the dense springy texture of his curls. His body was changing as he grew. The chubby softness of childhood was gone, replaced with harder cleaner lines, and dark hair appearing on his legs, arms, genitals, a soft fuzz appearing on his upper lip. Sherlock categorised these changes with a fascination that bordered on awe.

As his body changed so did his responses to his own touch, intensifying and deepening. It got to be that the slightest touch would send a swell of pleasure through him so intense, he had to lean back against the wall, shivering for a reason other than the cold. He'd angle the mirror at his thighs and watch as he slowly swelled to life at his own touch, fingers tracing over his nipples, his shoulders, down the snail trail that led to his pelvis. He'd bite his lip to hold back a moan as he cupped his arse, stroking the sides of his thighs. It would only take him a couple of quick pulls to bring himself off, biting his lip hard to keep from crying out.

Sometimes he'd turn his head pressing his lips to the smooth skin of his own shoulder.]_I love you _he'd whisper, and then flush at the ridiculousness of the statement.

* * *

"_Wanker_," one of the boys at school called after him in the corridor, and Sherlock had to duck his head to hide a sudden rush of confusion.

He wasn't the only person to masturbate, he knew that. Some of the boys at school liked to regale them all in far too much detail about their habits, and about the (largely imagined) anatomy of the girls they thought about. It always seemed dirty when they discussed it, an extension of the toilet humour that was deemed the height of wit in primary school. Humanity, teenage boys in particular, were inordinately prepossessed with their own capacity to produce piss and spunk and shit.

What Sherlock had, in the cold little bathroom with the too-small mirror, was different. It wasn't dirty or gross or amusing. It was beautiful.

* * *

Once one of his classmates brought in a pornographic magazine, which they all hooted over in the back of the classroom (not Sherlock, of course. His classmates made it very clear they had no interest in socialising with him in any way that didn't involve spitballs aimed at the back of his head). Once they were distracted Sherlock stole the magazine from the boy's bag, and took it home to analyse in private. It featured women, in various poses, most of them bordering on the ridiculous. Some were aesthetically pleasing and others patently were not. All of them left Sherlock feeling utterly cold. He tried to imagine touching one of them, or being touched by one of them and felt nothing but a faint discomfort at the idea.

"Sex can be a beautiful thing," his mother told him, having taken him aside one evening after dinner to 'have a little talk'( Sherlock suspected that she had found the magazine under his bed.) "But it's the love that makes it really special. You'll hear a lot of silly things from boys at school or on television but when you are in a respectful, affectionate relationship with a woman, that's when it's at its best."

Relationships with his peers were not Sherlock's forte, though, school made that very apparent. He resented the time spent surrounded by jostling, loudly and permanently insecure idiots almost as much as he resented the stiff uncomfortable materials of his school uniform, the too-bright red blazer that clashed with his pale skin.

For his fifteenth birthday Sherlock asked to visit the tailors and order clothes designed to his own specifications. He had designed the clothes carefully to highlight his favourite features – shirts made of silk and fine cotton which clung to his lean torso, open at the collar so that he could catch a glimpse of shapely collar bones and long white neck; dark linen trousers cut to accentuate the lean strong lines of his legs, the curve of his arse.

He couldn't wear them to school, of course, but the moment he got home he rushed up to his room to tear of the offending uniform and redress himself slowly, piece by piece, hands lingering on his skin. It was an act of worship, a transformation from something profane to something sacred.

"My boys both dress so sharply," Sherlock overheard his mother saying on the phone to Aunt Gladys. "I don't know where they get it from. Arthur would wear the same jumper every day of the week if you didn't tell him not to, and heaven knows I'm no fashion plate."

It was true Mycroft also dressed fastidiously, although for reasons rather different from Sherlock's. Mycroft's clothes were like everything about him, part of an elaborate calculation of how best to control the perceptions of others. Sherlock dressed only for himself, for gut deep thrill it gave him when he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and for the way the materials felt against his skin, the echo of his own caressing touch.

* * *

As time went by Sherlock became aware of eyes, male and female, following him. He had grown tall in recent months, his voice deepening, and even his prickly manners didn't keep the interest of others completely at bay. Even one or two of the boys at school began looking at him with (still slightly resentful) sheep's eyes.

Out of curiousity, Sherlock decided to succumb to the advances of one of his less stupid classmates. Jameson pushed him up against the wall in the empty science lab, shoved his hands under Sherlock's nasty polyester-blend school shirt. He kissed roughly, greedily, as if Sherlock had something important stored behind his tonsils and Jameson was determined to retrieve it. His touches felt all wrong – wrong pressure, wrong temperature, the body pressing up against this was eating up his oxygen. There was a low buzzing in Sherlock's head, white noise, irritation. Jameson struggled with the catch of Sherlock's trousers, shoved his hand down the front of Sherlock's underpants and Sherlock jerked back, hissing.

Jameson took a step back, eyebrows raised. "All right, Holmes?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, his cheeks stinging. He imagined himself storming out, the picture he'd make: shirt untucked, cheeks pink and eyes stinging. Ridiculous. "Just-," he grabbed Jameson by the arms, reversing their positions and imitating Jameson's lunge towards his nether regions.

Jameson made a pleased noise and leaned back as Sherlock carefully caressed him. It wasn't difficult, he realised. One merely had to apply logic, observe the reactions of the subject and respond accordingly. Jameson apparently liked things rather rougher than Sherlock did as a regular rule. Well, that wasn't a problem.

_You're an idiot._ Sherlock wanted to tell him, as he twisted and bucked against his hand, large hands gripping too hard at Sherlock's hips._ You're a stupid ugly buffoon. I hate you._

Jameson came with a rather undignified yelp and left Sherlock's hands in a mess. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and wiped his hands on his handkerchief, throwing it into the bin.

Jameson grinned at him rather stupidly.

"Inappropriate use of school facilities," Sherlock said, which was a poor joke but Jameson laughed anyway and reached out for him.

"Come here, I'll-"

Sherlock shook his head decisively. "Not interested."

A frown gathered on Jameson's brow. "You seemed interested earlier."

"I changed my mind." Sherlock side stepped him and headed for the exit.

"_Freak_," he heard muttered low as the door swung shut.

* * *

When the time finally came for Sherlock to leave home for University, the first thing he bought for his room was a full length mirror.

The first few months were glorious. For the first time Sherlock had the opportunity to explore his own body at his leisure – no furtive sessions before his family were awake, no snatched glimpses in a distant glass.

He gained the reputation in his hall for being very hard working, always closeted in his rooms with his books. There was some truth to that (he couldn't allow himself to receive a lower degree class than Mycroft, after all) but the fact was he spent a great deal of that time in front of the mirror. So much so that the sight of himself seemed burned into his brain, and he spent his time outside the room blinking away the impression it seemed to have burned on his retina, and which had begun to feel realer and brighter than anything else he encountered. He began to have dreams, astonishingly vivid ones, where his mirror self stepped on the glass and into the room with him. He dreamed of what it might feel like to hold himself as he might someone else, pressed chest to chest with his hands resting on the pebbled line of his spine, perhaps, or spooned against his back, tasting the nape of his neck. He dreamed of spreading the mirror Sherlock out on his bed, touching and tasting every part that was out of his reach.

The thoughts followed him into lecture halls, and into his supervisions leaving him distracted, breathless and with a peculiar ache in his chest.

* * *

It was about that time that opportunity presented itself in the form of his lab partner, Victor Trevor. Victor was a small, mild-mannered boy, handsome in the sense Sherlock understood to be conventional – straight features, shiny hair, large liquid looking eyes. He also happened to be rather in awe of Sherlock. Sherlock was dimly aware of wide eyed looks from that direction for quite some time before Trevor's hand slipped while doing an experiment and spilled acid down Sherlock's leg. There was a wash station at hand, and the wound was quickly treated (though it left rather an intriguing red stain on Sherlock's skin), but Victor was stutteringly apologetic for some time after that and insisted on buying Sherlock a drink to make up for it.

To Sherlock's surprise, engaging in conversation with Victor was not unpleasant. Nor when he came to think of it, was the brightness in Trevor's eyes when he looked at Sherlock. It wasn't like the covetous lust of Sherlock's school mates: Victor looked at Sherlock like Sherlock looked at himself, as if at something precious, unique, to be handled with care.

When Victor moved to kiss him he did it slowly, in halting steps, glancing up at Sherlock's face several times for permission – soft, butterfly touches of mouth and tongue. Sherlock moved to control the kiss and Victor followed his lead immediately, angling his head to accommodate. He was very biddable, Sherlock thought, and the possibilities began to expand in his mind's eye.

"You'll do exactly as I say," Sherlock told him later, when they reached his room. Victor's eyes widened at that, pupils dilating.

"Yes," he said. "Anything,"

It wasn't exactly like Sherlock imagined, of course, it couldn't be: but with Victor Sherlock could relive certain parts of his fantasy with his mirror self. Victor obeyed Sherlock's instructions with the meticulous attention to detail of a true scientist. Closing his eyes, Sherlock could imagine the hands laid on him were his own and, freed from the need to participate in proceedings, could lie back and watch himself as he'd never been able to before, spread out in front of the mirror, unwound, with Victor moving like a shadow behind him.

Sherlock and Victor were rather inseparable, for a while. It was pleasant, Sherlock realised, having an audience for his observations, a motivation to hone his deductive skills. It was gratifying to see his enthusiasm for subjects as diverse as chemistry, music and the curve of his own arse reflected in someone else. Victor was rather keener on partnered sex than Sherlock was: Sherlock would have preferred Victor in his bed as more of an occasional thing. But Sherlock wasn't unreasonable. He was willing to compromise.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't exactly sure when things began to change. There was a period of time during which Victor grew steadily quieter and quieter. Sherlock felt him sometimes, staring at Sherlock in the lab, though when Sherlock turned to look he always glanced away. There was an expression in his eyes as if he had been wounded. Sherlock began to feel a peculiar kind of tension whenever they were together, a kind of pull, as if they were engaged in a silent tug of war, though Sherlock had no idea what they could be competing over.

It came to a head one day at towards the end of Lent term. Sherlock came back to his room after going out for tea with his parents, to find Victor sitting outside it, shoulders hunched, back to the door, an expression of abject misery on his face.

"We need to talk," Victor said.

Sherlock glanced over him and nodded briefly once, unable to explain the sudden pressure in the back of his throat.

Inside the room, Victor huffed a sigh and stared at the floor, apparently unable to continue.

"Sherlock, I. I don't know how to do this,"

"You wish to end our relationship," Sherlock stated, because that much was perfectly obvious.

Victor shuddered a little and then wrapped his arms around himself. "I'm in love with you," he said, as if that was an explanation.

"And that makes you unhappy?"

Victor looked up at his for a long moment. He was the picture of pathetic, Sherlock thought, mouth flopping open, hair flopping into his eyes, too-large jumper flopping off his shoulders.

"You never look at me," Victor said. "When we f-"

Sherlock flinched a little away from the word and Victor bit his lip.

"I don't think you even see me," Victor said quietly, head angled towards the floor.

"You've been awake since seven this morning, having pressed the snooze button twice on your alarm first. It didn't leave you with enough time to do more than splash water on your face: there's sleep still in the corner of your eye. You cycled to this morning to Mill Lane, judging up the impression on your left leg from your bicycle clip. You sat in the back row. You bought an apple turnover from Fitzbillies after your lecture but didn't finish it, from the stain on your sleeve-"

Victor was shaking his head, looking floppier than ever. "That's not what I meant."

"I doubt you could summon a comparable level of detail about me."

Victor's liquid brown eyes are full of an apology. "It's not the same. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

* * *

Life after Victor was peculiarly colourless. Sherlock had got used to an audience for his observations: he found himself storing them up, a running list in his head of things-to-tell-Victor. But Victor didn't speak to him now: he'd teamed up with a new lab partner, a bug-eyed boy from Queens, and he spent practicals meticulously avoiding Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock tried making the same remarks to randomly selected students in the Buttery, but tended to be met either with hostile silence or mockery. The time he spent in front of the mirror seemed like the only real and bright thing in his life. That was, until he discovered cocaine.

It was Sebastian who, in a rare fit of tolerance, invited him to the Boat club after-dinner bop. The bop was conducted in a dimly lit, sweaty room at the back of college. A bass pumped arrhythmically and sent shudders down Sherlock's spine. One of Sebastian's friends, a girl who judging by the depth of her foundation was insecure about her skin, offered him the chance to try a line. Sherlock decided he was in a mood for exploration. Why not?

As it turned out, cocaine was _incredible. _The world felt suddenly new-painted, everything sharper, more vivid. His body was incandescent, his brain firing so fast it sent up sparks. He was in the corner of the room now, with the girl. Her mouth was like Victor's but a bit lower down, her body, pressing close to his, rather softer. Her hands were more like Jameson's, pushing and plucking at him, but fortunately for Sherlock sensation was muted, lost the bright rushing river that was his body on coke.

"I need," Sherlock said, when they paused for air. "To finish an experiment. In my room."

The girl laughed and, when she realised it wasn't an innuendo and he really intended to leave, got annoyed and shoved at him. Sherlock didn't mind. He felt ridiculously light as he walked back across the college, pleasure bubbling like a fountain under his skin.

In his room he stripped off and stood in front of the mirror, goose-pimpling in the cool air deliciously. His skin glowed: it was as if he'd absorbed the light in the room, as if it was caught beneath his skin, radiating out. He barely had to brush his chest to feel pleasure ignite, rushing like wildfire down his spine, tightening his groin. _ This _he told himself and the observation somehow felt utterly profound. _Lovely._

* * *

The trouble with drugs, Sherlock soon found, was that one cannot be on them all the time. And the come down was brutal. While cocaine made everything clean and vivid, the absence of it cast a grey film over the world. Everything was twice as boring, twice as stupid, several thousand times as disappointing.

Even masturbation palled. Sherlock found himself frustrated to the point where he felt like he was on the point of screaming. There was so much of his body he couldn't get at. Even Victor had got to enjoy him it ways he couldn't.

He became obsessed with the thought of all the parts of himself that were untouchable, unseen. He belonged to himself, why shouldn't he have access to all of it? He tried not eating for a few weeks so that he could get a better look at the shape of his skeleton under his skin. He liked how much paler he became, the brittle quality of dry skin stretched over bone. He contemplated fracturing something so he'd be able to go to the hospital and get an X-ray or scan. Perhaps they'd let him keep it – bones lit up and glowing like stained glass caught in the light. He'd imagined that once, on a high, but that wasn't the same as actually _seeing _it.

Of course that was too risky. Mycroft would get wind of a hospital visit, no doubt find some way of getting hold of Sherlock's medical records. Sherlock was certain he could deceive medical professionals but Mycroft would certainly recognise signs of self injury, probably of drugs too. And of course he'd almost certainly tell Mummy and Daddy, the great fat-headed tattle tale. No, it was wiser to fly under that particular radar.

A better solution was to simply to take more cocaine, drown out all his dissatisfactions in that simmering rush. Unfortunately it was an expensive habit and soon Sherlock was soon found himself in front of a cash machine informing him he was overdrawn. He'd spent more in the previous months than he had his entire first year.

* * *

Shortly after Victor approached him in the University Library canteen.

"Hey," Victor's shoulders were tense, mouth stretched in an unconvincing smile.

"Hey," Sherlock said flatly.

"Can I join you?"

Sherlock shrugged.

There was a silence as Victor looked down at his tray, apparently building up to something.

"Are you OK, Sherlock? Every time I see you now you're…" Victor hesitated. Sherlock glared at him.

"I'm just saying," Victor said. "I know how things ended between us wasn't… but if you need someone to talk to…"

Sherlock felt a rush of pure fury, black and cruel.

"I'm sorry," he said, wrinkling his brow as if in confusion. "Do I know you?"

Victor's mouth fell open. "Know me?" he echoed. "Sherlock..."

"That's my name. But I don't remember you. I suppose I must have deleted it. Can't have been important."

He got up and walked away, leaving Victor staring after him.

* * *

A few days later Sherlock returned to his room to find the door was ajar and there was an umbrella propped against the wall. He walked inside slowly.

Mycroft stood with his back to Sherlock, leafing through a chemistry text book.

"What are you doing here?"

"Ah, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I took the liberty of letting myself in."

"Well, you can take the liberty of letting yourself out again."

Mycroft's smile spread across his face slowly, like oil on water. "Once we've been through the necessary details of my visit."

"There's nothing that necessitates your presence here."

Mycroft made a show of reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to Sherlock. Sherlock glanced down at it: his most recent bank statement.

"Should I be concerned?"

"I needed some lab equipment for my studies."

"Indeed," Mycroft said coldly. "I don't notice any recent acquisitions."

"I don't keep it here."

"No," Mycroft said. "Of course not."

Standing he walked over to the mirror and made to examine his reflection in it. Sherlock worked hard to keep his body still, clamping down hard on the urge to flinch as Mycroft tilted his head, apparently at his own reflection.

"I suppose the Irish referendum is proving troublesome."

"What makes you say that?" Mycroft turned around, eyebrows raised slightly.

"The fit of your waistcoat. You really must learn not to resort to the patisserie when under stress. I'm surprised you can stand to look in the mirror."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Don't try to be smart, Sherlock,"

"No, that's right, _you're _the smart one." Sherlock said.

"And I suppose you think you are the pretty one," Mycroft said, lip curling, as he glanced pointedly around at the room. "Yes. I can see how much good that is doing for you."

Sherlock felt a flash of pure anger, and before he could quite stop himself he had crossed the room to his brother and his hands were on that slippery silk waistcoat, shoving him back.

"Get out," he said. "_Get out_."

Mycroft caught him by the wrists, holding him in place.

"Really, Sherlock," Mycroft's eyebrows were raised.

Sherlock wrenched himself out of his brother's grip, glaring at him. He had the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that being around Mycroft often gave him, a feeling that he was losing ground very fast without quite knowing why.

Mycroft stared at him for a long moment, then abruptly look away. "There is an excellent rehabilitation clinic in Eastbourne. I can arrange.."

"I don't want _rehabilitation_."

Mycroft's face twitched slightly. "No," he said. "Nevertheless, you have a brain and for that reason I can only hope that at some point it will occur that you may not want to sacrifice it on the altar of your own vanity. In that eventuality the offer still stands," Mycroft straightened himself and headed for the door. "In any case, you'd better consider the financial toll your habits are taking. I'm not the only member of our family who can spot an anomaly."

Sherlock glared at his brother's departing back, once he was out of the door Sherlock crossed the room and flung the door shut with an audible _snap_.

* * *

Sherlock did take more care after that. He earned a little money from his supplier undertaking some tasks requiring chemical knowledge, and worked on wearing a less obvious groove into his trust fund.

Time took on a new landscape, a mountainous terrain consisting of sharply glittering highs followed by catastrophic plateaus, in which the dull greyness of the world seemed to stretch around him without relief. Work, in the form of grinding away at his studies or adulterating products for his drug dealer, filled in the dull times. The mirror was there for when he had something in hand to amplify the experience.

* * *

It wasn't until the summer of his second year at University that things changed. Sherlock was leaving the exam hall after his final exam, already itching for solitude and a hit. Excited students were crowded too tight in the narrow alley, chattering about the exam, hugging, and in generally blocking his way. Someone to the right of him popped a champagne cork and foam spattered on Sherlock's shoulder. He was about to make a sarcastic comment, when a hand closed around his wrist. Sherlock turned and to his surprise found himself looking into the wide eyes of Victor Trevor.

"Hey," Victor said.

"Hello,"

"Umm," said Victor, glancing at the group behind them, now swigging champagne from the bottle. "Want to take a walk?"

They wandered along the backs past St John's, where everywhere students lay surrounded by beer cans and boxes of strawberries, the detritus of post exam celebration. Victor didn't speak for a long time, looking at the ground, the trees, the river, anything but Sherlock. There was distress written into every line of his appearance – the darkness under his eyes, the loose threads in his cuffs.

"I think my father's in trouble," Victor said abruptly.

Sherlock considered this. "And you think I can help you?"

Victor glanced at him briefly and then looked away again. "That thing that you do," he said. "Looking at people, and knowing things."

"Yes?"

"He won't tell me anything," Victor paused. "I don't know who else to ask."

Sherlock turned this over in his mind for a moment. "What do you suggest?" he asked.

* * *

Two weeks later, Sherlock arrived at the little station in Norfolk. Victor met him on the station platform, looking pale and distinctly queasy, and ushered him to a car without saying much. Victor's house turned out to be a tall terraced Victorian house, with narrow rooms and high ceilings. Victor showed Sherlock silently to a large airy room looking over the garden. There was a vase full of what looked like daffodils on the dresser. Someone was set to impress, Sherlock wondered if it was Victor. At the back of the room was a full length mirror – a heavy looking old fashioned design with a patterned wrought iron frame. This room wasn't its natural resting place – it had been recently moved in judging by the scratches on the floorboards. Sherlock glanced at Victor who suddenly seemed very interested in the floor.

"I'll leave you to it, then." Victor said, before Sherlock could frame the question and disappeared.

Victor didn't return, so Sherlock decided to spend the afternoon gathering what information he could from the house. What he found wasn't especially interesting. Victor and his father lived alone. Victor's mother had died some years before, probably of breast cancer judging by the ancient looking medicine bottles at the back of the bathroom cabinet. Sherlock discovered a photo of the woman in a drawer in the master bedroom, kept in the inner fold of a blank notebook. One smudged finger print on one corner of the photo. Father clearly the type to repress grief rather than share it. The photo was taken out only occasionally and in private. It painted rather a lonely picture. Two men alone in the house, aware of each other's troubles while trying not to broadcast their own. No wonder Victor seemed paler and quieter in this place, worn thin.

Victor found Sherlock several hours later carefully expecting the wainscoting in the sitting room.

"Dinner's ready," he said, expressionless.

Sherlock looked up, a little surprised. He hadn't been aware of the time passing.

"You've got a new cleaner," he said.

Victor shrugged.

"She's not as efficient as your old one. The dust patterns…."

"My dad will be at dinner," Victor interrupted. His eyes were screwed up a little at the corners, as though he were expecting a blow. Sherlock got to his feet slowly and followed him down to the dining room.

Trevor Senior resembled his son rather a lot: he had Victor's large dark eyes and slight even features, though rather unfortunately he was going bald on top. He made a show of welcoming Sherlock, ushering him to a seat, all darting eyes and short nervous movements. Dinner turned out to be a Bird's eye lasagne, heated in a microwave with frozen peas. Suddenly the reason behind Victor's vigorous appreciation of hall food was made clear to Sherlock.

They ate in silence, Victor frowning at his plate and glancing over at Sherlock frequently when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking. Trevor Senior ate very little but drank rather heavily and seemed rather in a world of his own.

"Who is JA?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

Mr Trevor's hands, clasped around a glass of wine began to tremble rather violently. "Wha…?"

"You've had a tattoo removed from your forearm – rather well done, but the scar remains if you know how to look for it."

Trevor had paled rather dramatically, muscles in his throat shifting as if he were suddenly struggling to breathe. "I – I don't,"

"Dad!" Victor leapt to his feet. "Dad, are you all right?"

Trevor took deep gasps of air, hunching over as Victor cradled him. He glared at Sherlock over the top of his father's head. "Maybe you'd better go to bed," he said.

Sherlock waited in his bedroom for Victor to come up, turning over the details of all that he'd noticed about Mr Trevor. His mind was buzzing, the blood thrumming through his veins. He caught sight of his face in the mirror, and stopped. His face had a faint flush on it, eyes bright and sparkling. _Lovely._

The latch on the door clicked, and Sherlock whirled around. Victor was in the doorway, looking drawn.

"You upset him," he said.

Sherlock widened his eyes in mock horror. "Oh, heaven forbid," he said. "Wasn't that why you invited me here?"

"I invited you here to find out what's going on!"

"Difficult to do if I'm forbidden from asking questions."

"No it isn't," said Victor, raising his eyes to Sherlock. "Not for you."

Sherlock shrugged, but couldn't help but feel a little pleased at the worshipful look in Victor's eyes. It had been a while since anyone had seemed impressed by Sherlock's abilities.

"No more questions," Sherlock agreed.

Victor let out a breath, shoulders relaxing slightly and took a step towards Sherlock.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm - I do appreciate it."

Victor paused and Sherlock noticed his eye flick briefly over to the mirror and back again.

Sherlock turned to look at it, eyebrows raised. "You moved this to my room deliberately. Why?"

Victor turned his eyes back towards Sherlock. "Because-" he hesitated. "I thought it would make you happy."

Sherlock looked back at him expressionlessly. Victor flushed, dropping his gaze to the floor for a moment before looking up defiantly.

"I know it was never me. I was just a tool. Wasn't I?"

Sherlock said nothing, but felt a flush rise on his cheeks, a stinging shame rushing through him, and with it resentment. Why should he be ashamed? What was wrong with loving oneself?

"It was your mistake to expect anything else."Sherlock said, as coldly and unconcernedly as he could manage.

Victor's eyes widened a little at that, glistening unnervingly but he nodded. "All right."

"Your father," said Sherlock briskly returning to the point. "Where does he work?"

"Medilever – it's a pharmaceutical company," Victor said. "He's a research scientist."

"Is he?" said Sherlock thoughtfully, pausing for a moment. That could be interesting. "Tomorrow we'll be paying him a visit at work. Think up a plausible excuse."

"I'll do that." Victor said. He paused awkwardly for a moment, looking up at Sherlock, before turning to leave.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock watched Victor breakfast on stale cornflakes and milk, before they headed out to Mr Trevor's workplace. As they were in the hallway about to leave, a key turned in the latch. A middle aged woman, dressed in jeans and a grubby jumper, entered.

"Oh, hello Mrs Scott," Victor said. "I didn't know you were coming in today."

The woman grunted, and shouldered her way inside. "Your Dad wanted a bit extra done. Said you had visitors."

She had a faint accent. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Australian.

"You're the cleaning woman," he said.

The woman shrugged, and pushed past the two boys. "I'll start downstairs."

"All right," Victor said. "We're going out so…"

"Yeah gotcha," the woman said, and started down the stairs.

Victor raised his eyebrows at Sherlock and smiled, clearly amused by the woman's brusqueness. They left.

"How long has that woman worked for your father?" Sherlock asked as they set off down the street.

"Just the last six months,"

"About the period of time since you say your father became troubled?"

Victor stilled slightly. "You think she has something to do with it?"

Sherlock gave him a narrowed eyed look. "She has the key to your house?"

"Yes. Dad said she was trustworthy."

Sherlock made a sceptical noise and they walked faster.

* * *

Victor spun his father a story about Sherlock wanting to get into the pharmaceutical industry after University. Unfortunately it meant Sherlock having to get into a very boring conversation about his fictitious dreams and aspirations, but they got a tour of the lab out of it. It was well stocked and furnished, clearly not a place where expense was spared.

As they reached the canteen, Victor's father bumped in to Dr Aldershot, evidently one of his colleagues. A blustering red faced man, he expressed a great deal of enthusiasm at 'finally' meeting Victor.

"He talks about you all the time," the man said. Victor's expression hovered somewhere between gratification and alarm.

"And this is Victor's friend, Sherlock, who is thinking of applying to work here after he graduates." Trevor said.

"Well, we can always do with new blood!" the man said. "What degree are you doing?"

"Chemistry," said Sherlock.

"Chemistry! Excellent. I daresay you've got a steady hand. We need that around here, eh, John?"

"Well," Victor's father said, looking embarrassed.

"Your old Dad," the man said to Victor. "He's a clumsy old fellow! Three times this last quarter we've had to restock because of all the equipment he's broken!"

"Butterfingers," Victor's father said. "You know how it is."

"Won't do, old man, won't do," the man said. "Well, best leave you to it. Good to meet you, boys!"

The man bustled off, and Victor's father gave the both an unconvincing smile. "You'll stay for lunch, won't you?"

* * *

"Would you describe your father as prone to breaking things?" Sherlock asked Victor as they walked out of the lab and into the faltering Norfolk sunlight.

Victor frowned. "No. You don't think he's ill, do you?"

"Doubt it," Sherlock said shortly. "Is there a place where he goes in your house, to be alone?"

Victor blinked at him. "I suppose - the basement," he said.

"Excellent," said Sherlock. "Now we're getting somewhere."

* * *

The basement door was locked, and it took some time for Victor to locate the key. Sherlock paced and decided he definitely needed to learn to pick locks.

Eventually Victor found the key in his father's chest of drawers and let them into the basement. Sherlock snapped on the light, and Victor drew in a breath. As Sherlock had suspected, it had been transformed into a laboratory, glassware neatly stacked on one end of a long table, various pieces of equipment lined up. Sherlock moved to a box in the corner, and opened it. It contained several bags of white powder. Sherlock opened one, and tested in against his gums.

"Cocaine," he concluded. He shuddered a little at the kick back from it. "Good stuff, too."

"My father's been…"

"Stealing equipment from work and manufacturing drugs in his basement, yes," said Sherlock. "I imagine Mrs Scott is in charge of distribution."

Victor sat down on the cellar steps. "I don't understand why."

Sherlock shrugged. "Could be financial problems. Most likely he's been subject to blackmail, given his reaction to the tattoo. Your Mrs Scott and her friends have been extorting him to ensure his cooperation."

"God," said Victor.

"Indeed," Sherlock sat beside him. "Now, you have a choice."

Victor looked at him enquiringly.

"We can lock this basement back up and you can pretend you don't know what your father is doing – or you can talk to him about it."

Victor licked his lips nervously.

"What do you think I should do?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Depends. Do you want things to change or don't you?"

Sherlock turned and went up the stairs, leaving Victor still sitting at the foot of the basement steps. He shoved the bag of cocaine deep into his pocket.

* * *

Sherlock didn't take the cocaine right away. He was still riding a high after solving the mystery, a rush of satisfaction coursing through him. It was a quieter pleasure than cocaine but somehow deeper. Sherlock felt momentarily replete, at peace with himself, as if in solving the case he'd achieved some kind of consummation between body and mind. He didn't feel the need to perform any of his private rituals – he just sat in front of his mirror, drank in his own reflection and smiled.

* * *

Victor knocked on his door.

"Well, I talked to him," he said wearily, sitting on Sherlock's bed.

"Oh?" Sherlock withdrew his gaze from the mirror with some difficulty.

Victor sighed deeply, drew his knees up against his chest and began to explain. As it turned out, Sherlock had been right. John Trevor had told his son that he had started life as James Armitage – an Australian pharmacist, who'd decided to make cash on the side by manufacturing illegal drugs. Gloria Scott had been his partner – right up until the point Trevor and Scott produced a batch of methamphetamine that Trevor realised had been dangerously contaminated. Trevor had informed Scott and told her to destroy the batch, but she had taken it upon herself to sell it anyway. As it turned out, three people died as a result of the tainted drug. Guilt stricken, Trevor had taken this as an incentive to leave the life of crime: he changed his name and moved to England, where he met Victor's mother.

Unfortunately, six months ago, Gloria had hunted him down and since then he'd been working for her.

"He says it's over now," Victor said. "He isn't even worried about the police catching up with him – turns out all he was worried about was the thought of me, losing respect for him."

"And have you?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"I don't know," said Victor. "He's my dad."

Sherlock wanted to point out that that was hardly an answer to the question, but he didn't.

"I'll take the train tomorrow," Sherlock said.

"Why?"

"Your mystery is solved."

"You could –" Victor hesitated. "Stay on a few days more."

Sherlock looked at him. Victor shifted slightly on the bed his tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

"It's been nice, you know. Like old times again."

"Not exactly," said Sherlock.

Victor's eyelashes flickered momentarily, and he shifted on the bed, moving towards Sherlock. He hesitated for a moment before pressing his lips gently against Sherlock's. He pulled back, eyes searching Sherlock's face. Sherlock considered a moment, unable to quantify the strange ache the movement had created in his chest. He nodded and Victor moved forward, cupping his face and kissing him again harder, pushing him back against the bed. Sherlock angled his head to allow Victor access to his neck – and so that he had a direct eye line to the mirror, admiring the way the pale skin of his face contrasted with Victor's hair, chocolate brown and ivory, the effect subtly different from how it looks with his own black hair…

"Don't." Victor pulled himself up to look at Sherlock, face flushed and eyes haunted. "Just this once, I want you to look at me."

Sherlock stared at him. "It won't make any difference."

"I know," Victor said. "Just – please." He kissed Sherlock again, his mouth suddenly seemed hot an uncomfortably wet, the hands brushing over his chest made his skin prickle. Victor drew back, and Sherlock could see himself, split into two pale shapes reflected in each of Victor's eyes. He stayed very still as Victor moved again over him, kissing his neck, his collar bone, sliding a warm hand under his shirt. Victor's breathing seemed to be growing ragged and abruptly he pulled back, placing a hand over his face.

"God," Victor said. "You really can't stand to, can you?"

"I told you." Sherlock said, his chest suddenly feeling hollow.

Victor ran a hand threw his hair and looked away. "You know," he said. "Maybe you _should_ leave tomorrow."

"I said I would," Sherlock said coldly.

"Well I-" said Victor, and paused. "I'll see you to the station."

Sherlock turned away and watched in the mirror as Victor got up and moving slowly almost as if the movement hurt him, walked to the door.

Sherlock waited for a few minutes and pulled the bag of cocaine out of his pocket. His encounter with Victor had left a feeling of heavy coldness in his chest that he wanted to dissipate as soon as possible. It was potent stuff – Sherlock felt his ears ringing, even as he inhaled, sparks scattering in front of his vision. He stood up, pulling deep breaths into his lungs as the effects settled. He walked to the mirror. His mirror self seemed to be hovering an inch about the floor, eyes as huge and dark as Victor's had been. Sherlock blinked and the mirror trembled like the surface of a lake, shivering away from him. He laid a hand against the hard smooth surface and watched in amazement as ripples spread away from it, and his reflection smiled.

"Sherlock?"

His reflection's eyes were depthless, expanding like the surface ripples. Sherlock found himself swaying on his feet, before falling forward into their endless dark.

* * *

Sherlock was next aware of pain, an oppression in his chest and arms, a vice like grip in his head. He opened his eyes and winced. A face utterly unlike his own looked down at him in a expression of pure, perfectly chiselled disgust.

"Do you know where you are?"

Sherlock blinked. The world behind the sneering face was white and painful.

"Mycroft," he said, aware that it wasn't an answer to the question.

Mycroft's lips thinned even further.

"You're in hospital. You suffered a cardiac arrest. It's lucky your friend had the good sense to call an ambulance." Mycroft leant closer, every line of his body tensed with anger. "Mummy and Daddy are distraught. I can only hope this will teach you a lesson."

It soon became clear that Sherlock was not going to be allowed to leave the hospital until he'd completed a week of rehabilitation. Sherlock pointed out that they were not allowed to detain him, but it seemed someone had provided documents suggesting he was a danger to himself. Hard to escape the consequences of having brothers in high places. If Sherlock was honest, the idea of a week away from the world and its endless reflective surfaces wasn't unwelcome. The experience had shaken him – less the brush with death than the knowledge he had miscalculated his dosage so drastically. He hadn't thought himself capable of such a stupid mistake.

It wasn't until the last day of his compulsory rehabilitation that he was told he had a visitor. Sherlock, expecting Mycroft, went reluctantly to his room. Victor stood, looking oddly sheepish and ill at ease by his bed.

"Oh, you look better," Victor said, and broke into a relieved smile.

"I suppose, for someone who has been forcibly detained and bored for a week," Sherlock said loftily, but he found himself smiling a little too.

"Your brother said you'd be getting out today,"

"Much to his dismay, no doubt,"

"He was very worried," Victor said.

Sherlock shrugged.

"I thought he was going to kill my dad when he found out where you got it from – I said it was an accident…"

"I'll speak to him."

"Thanks," Victor said. "Actually, we might not need you to. Dad and I are going away."

Sherlock looked up, "Oh?"

"To India, I think. Out of the reach of Scott - and all that. And I can transfer my degree to an Indian University. It'll be a fresh start."

"Will it," Sherlock said flatly. He stared at Victor and wondered just how much of Victor's desire for a fresh start came from the need to be parted from Sherlock.

Victor shifted, looking away. "I wanted to thank you for everything you did."

"Not necessary."

"You were brilliant," Victor said. "If you hadn't figured out I think we'd both still be going mad, not able to talk to each other. I said to Dad, you should be a detective."

Sherlock glanced at him cautiously. His face was open, shining with admiration, the way it had been in the earlier days of their friendship. Sherlock nodded, shortly, in acknowledgment.

"Well then," Victor stepped forward, and reached out, squeezing Sherlock's arm. "I guess this is – this is goodbye." Victor's eyes glistened in a way that reminded Sherlock with an uncomfortable lurch of the mirror, the way it had turned liquid and rippled away from him.

"Goodbye," he said shortly.

He thought about Victor and his mystery as he packed up his few belongings ready to leave later that day, the purity of the joy that he'd experienced before Victor has interrupted him. Perhaps there was something in it.

"Mr Holmes, I've a message to say there's a car waiting for you," a nurse said, sticking her head around the corner of his room.

Sherlock nodded, and picked up his bag. As the door closed he saw his reflection flash in the glass panel. Smiling, Sherlock pulled on his jacket and walked out into the world again.

A/N: This is vaguely based on the story of Echo and Narcissus. Also Victor's father's story and Sherlock's money making methods owe a great deal to Breaking Bad.


End file.
